Zombies 2.0 Bundle: Zombies 2.0

By J.P. Westfind

The first three books in the Zombies 2.0 series together in one bundle. Zombie Flight, Zombie Tribe, and Zombie Trap. A fresh twist on the zombie genre that nobody saw coming. Zombies 2.0

 

Mustang infection has swept the globe. It makes you smarter, faster, cures chronic illnesses, and even helps you lose weight. You've got to make sure to take your medicine, because the consequences can be murder. Evolution or apocalypse, with the fate of the country at stake it's time to choose sides.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Boyes and Crang
• Release date: Jan 11, 2021
• ISBN: 9780645003352

J.P. Westfind

J.P. Westfind never wanted to be a zombie writer. After an early novel failed for its lack of pace, he decided to hone his skills and began a single-minded study of action. All roads led to the genre with alternative worlds, the most thrills, and wildest characters. He fell in love with it. He hopes you’ll enjoy the world of Zombies 2.0 as much as he enjoyed writing it!

Book preview

Zombies 2.0 Bundle

Zombies 2.0 Bundle

Zombie Flight, Tribe, and Trap

J.P. Westfind

Boyes and Crang

Copyright © J P Westfind, 2021

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead, walking dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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ISBN 978-0-6450033-5-2

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Cover art by Jelly Design

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Published by Boyes & Crang

PO Box 95, Erskineville

NSW, 2043, Australia

www.boyesandcrang.com

About the Author

J.P. Westfind never wanted to be a zombie writer. After an early novel failed for its lack of pace, he decided to hone his skills and began a single-minded study of action. All roads led to the genre with alternative worlds, the most thrills, and wildest characters. He fell in love with it. He hopes you’ll enjoy Zombie Tribe as much as he enjoyed writing it!

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Sign up for JP Westfind’s New releases mailing list and receive a free copy of Zombie Land, a zombies 2.0 short story.

www.jpwestfind.com

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Also by J.P. Westfind

Zombies 2.0 series

Zombie Flight

Zombie Tribe

Zombie Trap

Zombie School

Contents

Zombie Flight

1. Narita Airport

2. Little Susie

3. The Senator Returns

4. Business Class

5. Band-Aids

6. Munchies

7. I spy

8. Clean-up

9. Warning

10. Steam

11. Cockpit

12. Uncle Jatan

13. Claustrophobia

14. The two of us

15. Eavesdropping

16. Turbulent

Zombie Tribe

Epigraph

1. Jackie Two-Feathers

2. Ricky Edgar

3. Jed’s Bait ’n’ Ammo

4. Jed’s Best Friend

5. Breathe

6. Temptation

7. The Social Network

8. Way Back Home

9. Flat Tire

10. The Network

11. Home Is Where the Heart Is

12. Reunion

13. Run

14. On the Fringes

15. Family Ties

16. House Call

17. 7-Eleven

18. Old Friends

19. Drive

20. Living Room Central

21. Cousin Katie

22. Gramps’s Place

23. Facetime

24. Visiting Hours

25. Blood Bank

26. Visitors

27. The Hunger

28. Full Moon

29. Break-In

30. Bad Blood

31. Meeting Adjourned

32. Duty Calls

33. Cross Words

34. Old Friends

35. The Wee Hours

36. Jail House Blues

37. Alarm

38. The Hangar

39. Trapped

40. Sacrifice

41. Ashes

Afterword

Zombie Trap

Epigraph

1. .38 Special

2. The Message

3. On the Road

4. Bank Robber

5. Pharmacy

6. Rooftop ... Oh Crap

7. Dinnertime

8. Inconvenient Store

9. Convenient Friends - Newtown Quik Stop

10. Local Knowledge

11. Left Behind

12. The Warehouse

13. Smoke Gets in My Eyes

14. Steele’s Raiders

15. To Die a Soldier

16. Showtime

17. The Breaks

18. Dead on Time

What did you think?

What’s next?

Acknowledgments

Zombie Flight

We are conscious of an animal in us, which awakens in proportion as our higher nature slumbers. It is reptile and sensual and perhaps cannot be wholly expelled; like the worms which, even in life and health, occupy our bodies. Possibly we may withdraw from it, but never change its nature. I fear that it may enjoy a certain health of its own; that we may be well, yet not pure.

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Henry David Thoreau, Walden

1

Narita Airport

Neumann bent down to look for any stray legs under the rows of cars. Paranoia had saved him more than once.

The fluorescent lights didn’t help—there weren’t enough of them, and the gray pillars and ramps of the car park threw dark claustrophobic shadows. The architect who’d built this place could only have had one set of instructions: jam everything in tight.

The ID badge hanging from his hip read Dr. Roger Neumann, US Embassy, Cultural Attaché. He shuddered, if one of those things was lurking in the shadows, credentials wouldn’t help him.

His face clenched in concentration, listening. The thrum of a jet taking off overhead broke through the airport gray noise before tailing off. There were no sounds of footsteps—nothing. Keep it together. No one’s in the car park but you and your imagination.

Breath came in fast, short spurts. Too bad the whole place smelled of tire rubber and leaking oil. He crouched behind a Nissan, leaning against a tire, not caring if his suit got dirty. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, held it, then willed the out breath to come slowly.

If anyone from the embassy caught him freaking out in the dark . . . well, he’d seen too many vets crack up to blame them. Imagination backed up with hard data was a bad combination. The voice in his head wouldn’t let up. Damn, he hoped he’d hidden his feelings. If Steele thought he was the mayor of Crazytown, he might not read the dossier. That would be bad because the general couldn’t afford to lose another ally, and more importantly, Neumann couldn’t afford to lose his daughter’s protector—at least not for the duration of the flight.

He pulled a cigarette out of his pocket for his nerves—and a .9 ml Browning from his shoulder holster for more concrete reassurance.

He didn’t believe in intuition, which just made the abiding sense of dread all the worse. The flame from his lighter showed a face wrinkled with worry. He sucked on the cigarette greedily, but even the reassuring hit of nicotine couldn’t take the edge off. Then the noise started again—a shuffling step with dragging feet. He held his breath. Maybe they’ll go the other way. Just keep quiet, and there’ll be nothing to worry about.

The ping of a cell phone cut through the silence. He flinched, his heart beating in overdrive thumping his ribs. He dropped the Browning into his front suit pocket and fumbled to pick up the call before it rang again. General Kellis flashed across the phone screen as he put it to his ear.

Yeah, he whisper-yelled, nervous. Make it quick. I think someone’s down here.

Imagine that—someone at an airport, a deep voice vibrated through the phone. I’m not impressed with your improvisation, Neumann. You were meant to follow the plan.

Neumann paused, pulling his ear from the headpiece for a moment. The footsteps seemed to have stopped, but he still whispered. A good soldier improvises, General. Steele doesn’t care what we do to him. He didn’t even know he was still a senator until yesterday. He’s a sad, grieving alcoholic. He just wants to vote and leave. His reputation’s already nonexistent, and he has no idea he’s a pawn. And no, I didn’t tell him about his sister. He’s not ready.

A roar came down the phone, but Neumann didn’t flinch. He merely held the phone further away from his ear. He turned his head and scanned the car park slowly, squinting at shadows.

He took another drag of his cigarette and pulled out a brown leather wallet, then flicked it open and smiled. A string of photo-booth shots showed him with a little girl, arm in arm, pulling silly faces. All this—it was worth it.

Narita Airport had been a nightmare. The Japanese might be strict, but they weren’t the problem. He’d spotted more infected travelers in the Wedge Airline Frequent Flyer’s area than out in the regular boarding lounge. Steele, the naive idiot, was completely oblivious, chatting up the barmaid halfheartedly when Neumann had found him. Not that the general, pissed off as usual, would care.

Yes sir, General, but Susie was my in. Anyway, Steele had to talk to me with my little girl there, and she’s better trained than half our agents at spotting wormers. The dossier will get him curious, and Susie will seal the deal. Neumann raised his voice. Getting Susie back to the States was part of our deal; I just sped it up. Our man’s on the plane too, but Steele’s messed up. He stinks of booze and looks like he hasn’t shaved in six months. He’s going to need some serious work, but he could be perfect if he survives the next few days.

The evidence? The general grunted.

Yeah, he’s got it.

Neumann did a double take as he glimpsed something moving on the next level of the car park. He peered through the darkness but saw only rows of cars and concrete pillars cloaked in shadows. If it was what he thought it was, it could move fast.

Shit! Send someone to the south car park, level 2. I need help. Now! Whoa. I needed to calm down. Hello? The phone had gone silent. The general had hung up on him. Arsehole!

Neumann jumped up and started walking fast. The sound of the footsteps in the distance were drowned out by his own, but they were there closer now, getting harder to disguise. When he stopped, they stopped, so he kept moving. The steps didn’t sound like someone walking to a car. Something about the rhythm told him their head was firing off messages to run and creep at the same time. Freakin’ wormers.

This is the last time. Screw it. Time for an unofficial holiday until things settle down. Janice, and her touchy new friends can stay in Tokyo and do whatever the hell they want.

He caught another glimpse of someone moving between the cars up on the next half level—a woman, he thought. He had to be sure. Hello?

The footsteps in the distance started to fall faster. She was almost at the ramp coming down to this level. He hoped the embassy car was close. Still, there was a little breathing room. There shouldn’t be anything to worry about. He was a big guy running scared from a woman probably half his size. His instincts knew different though. She wasn’t any woman; she was a Mustang . . .

He started to sprint, his chest burning. The car had to be close now, but they all looked the same down here in the dark. He pressed the Unlock button again and again until the taillights of a Lexus sedan at the end of the row flashed in response. Turning back, he saw her running down the ramp. A woman, definitely a woman, and moving fast.

He made it to the car, wrenching open the driver’s side door and jumping in. Something dropped to the ground as he slammed the door. The gun, dammit! He pushed the door open to grab it, but looked up and saw her coming for him instead.

Something about her was wrong. She held her head at an angle—not like a runner, or even like a normal person running. It was more than infection. She’d turned. There shouldn’t be any Turned here in the airport. Things must be getting bad. Damn, she can move. This will be tight.

Neumann slammed the door as the central locking clicked in. He searched wildly for the ignition before he slid the key in and the engine came to life. His hands and feet moved automatically, throwing the Lexus into gear before screaming out in Reverse, tires squealing.

He braked and put the Lexus into First gear, dropped the clutch, and hit the gas. The Lexus jerked forward and accelerated toward the far ramp. He could see the woman in the rearview mirror, sprinting now.

Too late, sister. I’ll be up that ramp in a second. He spun the wheel, tensing for the corner.

Glass exploded into the Lexus as her body smashed through the driver’s side window like a missile. He screamed as his foot rammed down on the accelerator. The car whined in sympathy as he tried to bat her off with his arm. His foot tensed, pushing down on the accelerator as the Lexus’s engine roared.

Get away!

Time slowed for Neumann as she pounced. She was so strong, her fingers like talons, ripping into his skin as he struggled, too late.

Blood flooded down Neumann’s throat as she bit into his neck, his scream strangling in his throat. He watched in horror as his blood drenched her hair, an observer at his own death, until, mercifully, the Lexus launched itself off the ramp and straight into a concrete pylon.

With a sickening crunch of metal and plastic, the Lexus folded in on itself. The air bags inflated as Neumann and his killer were flung forward in a death grip. The clutching and biting didn’t let up though. Her grip got tighter and tighter as Neumann tensed, feebly trying to protect himself.

He barely registered the drone of the car horn and whine of the engine. Even the sound of her teeth grinding on the bones of his neck was growing fainter.

It can’t end like this. Susie! I have to look after Susie. I can’t let those things get her.

There was no longer any pain. Then everything went black.

2

Little Susie

Little Susie wore a polka-dot Hello Kitty surgical mask. She was eight and a half, and cute enough to eat. The half’s important, she’d said as the flight attendant tucked her into a reclined business-class seat.

Watching unaccompanied children was one of Nola’s unofficial flight attendant duties, one that she used to like. She didn’t know if having kids was even a possibility anymore.

You know, I bet you’ve got a cute face under that mask. You’ll have to show me it later, said Nola. Even if the polka-dots are cute.

My dad said I have to wear it. Susie smiled nervously under the mask, pointing at something barely visible in the glow of her TV screen, high up on Nola’s gray Wedge Airlines blazer. You’ve got some dots on your top too, Nola.

Nola’s rehearsed flight-attendant smile strained for a moment. The scent of blood screamed out to her, but she held it together, covering the stain with her hand and smoothing out the airline blanket over Susie.

Little Susie has good eyes . . . but they look worried. Smart too. Nola held a finger up to her mouth. Shhhh! It’s our secret.

Don’t worry, Susie whispered. She glanced across the aisle at an older man cocooned in headphones. They’re all sleeping or watching movies.

Speaking of, Nola said, pointing at the seat next to Susie. Where is Sleeping Beauty? You know, the senator.

He said I could call him Richie. Susie pointed to the curtains at the front of business class. He’s in the bathroom, I think. He’s funny, but he smells like drinks.

Susie cupped her hand to the mask covering her mouth as she looked up at Nola’s blazer. I spill my food sometimes too, but I tell my parents that Charlie, our dog, jumped up and got me dirty. Well, I did when we had a dog. We had to leave Charlie with Gran when we moved to Japan. My mom doesn’t like dogs anymore either.

Nola had flinched at the word dog, blinking, disoriented. She gripped Susie by the shoulder, squeezing her fingers deep into her flesh. Susie recoiled, holding her hand to her face mask.

You just tell Richie not to leave you alone again! Okay, Susie?

Yes, Susie whimpered.

Nola turned and left, moving past rows of business-class seats fast and into the forward galley area of the Boeing 787-9 Dreamliner near the cockpit. She pulled the curtain across and looked around at the walls studded with built-in storage areas. They were packed with food, alcohol, and everything else needed on the long-haul flight from Tokyo to Los Angeles.

Nola stared down at the small bloodstain on her blazer. Then looked across to read occupied above the bathroom door handle. How long does that man need?

At least for the moment she was alone. The other attendants usually stuck to their own sections of the plane in the few hours before landing. She unlatched one of the compartments built into the wall and reached in. She pulled out a black leather bag, then searched in it until she found a compact mirror. She went over to the galley sink and wet a cloth, then took her seat. A bead of sweat ran down her forehead as she kept an eye on the aisle curtain separating the galley from business class.

The blood spot was hard to make out with the small compact mirror, but the scent screamed out to her. Blood, like a fine perfume, stood out among the thousands of other scents circulated by the Dreamliner’s air-conditioning unit.

The stain sat underneath her name tag. It was too late to get it out, but she had to try. The day you stop caring about your appearance is the day you give up on life. That was what her momma used to say.

She dabbed at the stain but couldn’t tell if the blood had come out. At least the damp patch of wet fabric now blended in with the color of the blazer. She lifted her shirt at the neck and looked down in alarm. Red welts were starting to show, coming up her chest toward her neck. It’ll be okay. It has to be.

Her stomach grumbled as the thing inside her moved. The hunger was something she’d gotten used to, but this was different, more urgent this time. She didn’t even register the moan as coming from her when a stabbing pain hit her in the gut. The doctors called it a parasitic infection. She couldn’t see it, but she knew it was the worm. It was moving, pushing on her stomach, like a baby’s fist, right where her shirt tucked into her skirt. There were rumors about what it was like to be infected, but no one really knew what it was like to have a worm living inside you except other Mustangs. If they did, things would have gotten ugly. Ugly and bloody.

Checking to make sure no one was coming, she took shallow breaths, trying to relax. Slowly the movement stopped and she could breathe again, but not before the tears came.

She glanced down at her watch. A thirteen-hour flight used to be a walk in the park. Damn doctors never said anything about how you felt without the drugs. The stories can’t be true! It was too much to think about, too much. If it got too bad, they wouldn’t let her fly, and she might become like one of those things.

Her hand shook as she took a last look at the wet patch on her blazer and wiped the tears away. The familiar electronic ding that signaled passengers to fasten seat belts sounded through the cabin, and a strong, deep voice came through the overhead speakers.

This is your captain, Greg Henning, speaking. We are expecting a little turbulence coming up. Nothing to worry about, folks, but for your safety we ask that you remain seated and fasten your seat belts. Apart from that, it’s a lovely day up here in the clouds, and we expect to be landing in a little over two hours.

Nola stared at the curtain separating her from business class. She’d go back in and settle the passengers soon. It was dark in there. Surely they won’t notice a tiny stain. Well, some of them might, but those passengers were Mustangs, and they wouldn’t mind.

The creamy-white internal coms telephone rang beside her, its red light flashing on and off. She brought the hand piece to her ear and listened with mmms and yeahs, in a voice her father would’ve described as Georgia sass.

It’s not my fault, Greg! I don’t tell you how to fly, do I? He’s either been drinking or sleeping the whole time. Well, that, or pretending behind his Elvis sunglasses. I went to ask him to come up front a few times, but as soon as I said anything, he started snoring really loudly to make the little girl next to him laugh.

She paused for a second and listened. No! This is the first bathroom break where he’s come up front. I’ll do the regular message bit, half-hour tops. . . . Yeah, even if I have to wake him up, but I can hardly bring him up front if the seat belt sign is still on. We’re on the same side, Greg!

Her legs shook with another bump of turbulence as she rose and walked through the galley to the still occupied bathroom.

The scent of shaving cream with a touch of blood seeped from the small gap at the bottom of the bathroom door. It was faint, but fresh, hijacking Nola’s senses. She twitched, smiling. She was stronger, better now. The doc told her it was the new normal. Before the infection she would never have been able to make out a scent that faint.

She went to knock, but pulled herself back, drinking in the scent.

3

The Senator Returns

I’d buried her at our favorite spot, near a giant sierra redwood in Sequoia National Park. Roots crisscrossed the ground, but the soil was soft—good digging. I wrapped her in our tartan picnic blanket and laid her out spooned around a root. If anyone dug her up now, they probably wouldn’t even be able to make out her face, but I’d never forget it.

They should’ve charged me for stealing her cancer-ravaged body from the morgue, but my father-in-law had some serious pull. I drew him a map so he could visit the grave too. He was pissed, but he understood and got the charges dropped. The journalists hounded me to the point where I stopped watching TV and reading newspapers after that. So I quit and jumped on a plane to Japan, far enough away to be anonymous.

I was nowhere near ready to come back, but here I was.

The reflection in the undersized airline bathroom mirror seemed to agree. My fifteen-hundred-dollar suits had been left behind in the States what felt like a long time ago. My jeans and jumper were stained and dirty, and they looked good in comparison to the rest of me.

Based on some of the news stories I’d read before I’d left, I figured the party must have been glad to see me gone. Train-wreck senators were the wrong kind of distraction heading into the midterm elections. None of them tried to stop me leaving. I had no credibility to take with me into exile.

My old army buddy Howie organized a place for me to stay out in the Japanese countryside near the hot springs at Matsunoyama. As far as the locals were concerned, I was nobody. Thank God none of them read the LA Times. They let me be, the crazy drunk American gaijin, still 80 percent numb. I spent a few days a week doing jobs around the house for Howie’s elderly mother-in-law, the rest of the time taken up with drinking. I prided myself on not having checked an email, or having read, listened to, or watched the news in eleven months.

Two days ago some goon with a New York accent in a bulging suit tracked me down with an ultimatum. Either I come back and vote on the Anthelmintic bill, or my passport would be revoked. I laughed in his face until he showed me a web page on his phone. I almost hit him. Right under my mug shot it read Representing the great state of California, Senator Richard Steele.

My chief of staff, Pam, told me she’d pass my resignation letter on to the president and the speaker of the House eleven months ago. It had to be official? Nothing was left for me in the States—just sad memories and nasty tabloid rumors about my wife’s death.

Being deported had never been on my bucket list, but they’d picked me up for my flight back to the States via the US Embassy the next morning. That is, after a long session with Howie. They’d threatened to deport him too, and he had a three-year-old Japanese daughter.

Back in Afghanistan, Howie had been one hell of an operator, Mr. Hearts and Minds in Psy Ops—Psychological Operations, to civilians. Too much heart. He’d been badly shot up attempting to rescue me when I strolled into an ambush in downtown Kabul. He loved the sake these days but didn’t like to drink alone. Which was why my head now felt like a squashed watermelon.

Howie filled me in on the latest weird stories going around the Tokyo ex-pat community about some epidemic—a parasitic worm infection named after a horse or something like that. Damn conspiracy theories.

The goon mentioned a link between some new treatable disease called Mustang and the Anthelmintic bill too. Even if I didn’t care, two hours from now the media would be waiting for me at LAX with questions. And worse—politicians, lobbyists, and staffers.

I had to stop thinking; the hangover didn’t like it. Whenever I had a pain-free second, I locked my head in place in the hope that it would stay that way. It never lasted. I would experiment with moving my head and neck by a matter of degrees, looking for the magical painless pose.

Red eyes stared back from the mirror. Too many wrinkles and gray hairs had sprouted over the last few years. The scar on my cheek, partially hidden by my beard, was the only thing that seemed real and fresh, a legacy of my last tour of Afghanistan with Howie.

In no hurry to finish the second round of shaving, I ignored a muted knock on the door and rubbed the soap into a lather as warm water ran over my hands. My beard had more hair than even a business-class bathroom sink could take.

I heard a soft Georgia accent come through the bathroom door but elected to ignore it. Senator, Senator Steele. Hell-oo. Are you okay in there, sugar?

I couldn’t think, let alone respond, when she started knocking on the door. Needles of pain pierced my brain as the silence broke.

Senator, the captain wanted me to tell you that a message came through for you from LA. There was silence for a moment, then, I can take you up to the cockpit when you’re finished, if you want.

Alright, alright! Give me a minute, I yelled. I bumped my elbow against the wall as I pulled five different sheets of tablets from my jean’s pocket. Sticky-taped to each sheet was a note in the embassy doctor’s diabolical handwriting. Antibiotics I’d taken to keep the doctor happy, sleeping pills, valium, antidepressants, and OxyContin. Drugs you could only get at the embassy. I threw them down beside the basin for a minute.

The doctor said to stay calm. Calm! What would Heather have done? Not this. I grinned madly into the mirror like some baboon at the zoo taunted by tourists one too many times. Why the hell was I shaving? Not for the kid I’d been suckered into babysitting. Hell, no adoring kids waited for me in LA—Heather’s cancer had seen to that. Screw it. One vote, then I’d leave that cesspit.

I barely felt my fist draw back before it smashed straight into my reflection. Bang! That got the flight attendant pounding at the door again, louder this time, almost yelling. Senator Steele, are you okay in there? It’s Nola, the flight attendant. What was that noise? Can you hear me? Senator! Senator!

That hurt. The mirror cracked into a misshapen spiderweb. I shook out my hand, blood dripping from my knuckles. Yeah, yeah. I’m fine, just give me a second, I said.

I popped four Ibuprofen and two Paracetamol, then cupped my hands under the cold tap and gulped them down. I let the cold water run over my knuckles, then dried them off with some toilet paper. I reached for the packets of tablets on the side of the basin and one by one emptied them out of their packaging into the toilet. I’d swallowed the pills I needed to get me past this hangover—that was enough. I was done being medicated.

The knocking on the bathroom door started again. Senator Steele! Are you okay? If you can’t come up front, you’re going to need to take your seat. The Fasten Seat Belt sign is on.

Hang on. My head throbbed.

Still groggy, I opened the door and shuffled out to find the flight attendant waiting for me. She had the usual plastered-on attendant smile, blonde hair coiffed regulation style, but she looked uncomfortable and self-conscious. She was holding her stomach like she had indigestion, flustered, crowding me in the narrow aisle as I tried to get past her.

She glanced at the broken mirror behind me, but her eyes went straight to my hand. You’ve cut yourself.

Damn turbulence. I looked down at her name tag and gave her one of the smiles my PR people loved, like she was the most important person in the room. I thought these Dreamliners were immune to turbulence. Nola, right?

My smile usually opened doors, but not this time. She ignored me. I must have cut myself worse than I thought, because she couldn’t stop staring at my hand. Blood still dripped from my knuckles.

Here, let me clean you up, she said, pulling out some tissues that had been tucked up her sleeve and dabbing at my hands. I’ll find some Band-Aids.

She moved behind me, and I thought I caught a glimpse of her putting the bloody tissue in her mouth. I must have been delirious. That, or she had a dirty-tissue fetish. I closed my eyes for a second. Now wasn’t the time to start imagining things. I needed to sit down.

When I opened my eyes again, she was leaning on her drinks trolley, sucking in some air. I noticed tears had run her makeup, and she was clutching her stomach again.

Are you okay? I asked, paying attention this time.

Oh, I’m fine. Indigestion. Nola held her hand up to her mouth, feigning embarrassment. I didn’t buy it. Her lips smiled but not her eyes. She leaned over to the trolley and pulled out some Band-Aids. She opened them up and covered the cuts on my hands, staring at them the whole time like I was some hand model.

Say, are you sure you wouldn’t like to come up to the cockpit now? she asked. The pilots would get a real kick out of meeting their senator, and it seemed like that message was urgent.

Not now, the vultures can wait a little while. I’m sorry I . . . I gave a few fake coughs. I’m feeling a little off. I must’ve caught something. I don’t want to spread my infection.

That stopped her in her tracks, and I caught the shift in her face from surprise back to forced smile. Something about her was off, erratic, crowding me. Well, not my problem. None of this was. I started heading back to my seat. She’d find the mess in the bathroom soon enough. Goddamn, that was stupid.

I might just have to sit for a while, Nola. My head hurts. I winked, tried to put on a smile, and kept moving back toward my seat. At least that wasn’t a lie.

4

Business Class

Business class was laid out in a 2-2-2 formation, and most of the passengers had reclined their seats into beds. Green numbers illuminated the aisle at shin height. A hodgepodge of faces showed in the dark, framed by headphones and lit by screens set into the backs of the seats in front of them. When the apocalypse came, there’d still be a demand for business class.

A few of the passengers rose from their slumber as we came through, including a woman who sat in the row in front of me, eyeing me. Weird, another one looking at my hand as if it were a slab of prime steak.

Something made me turn back to Nola. She was watching me like a hawk. Are you sure you’re okay there, Nola?

I’m fine, but thank you. Here we are—6B, she said as I sat down next to my traveling companion. Little Susie didn’t look up, her eyes stayed glued to the screen in front of her.

Nola leaned in close, trying to be quiet so as to not wake any of the sleeping passengers. You’re one of the good ones—politicians, I mean. My brother’s an Afghanistan veteran, and he said you look out for his support group. And all that stuff you said about our freedoms in your last campaign. Well, I’m a Californian now, I guess, she said in her Georgia accent. I voted for you anyway. Hey, maybe sometime we could . . . well . . . She started to blush as she held my hand, and she had quite the grip on it.

Relying on politicians is a cop-out, I snapped, ignoring the stares from the other passengers. I lowered my voice, but I couldn’t drop the anger. If you’re really interested in freedom, there’s an air marshal back there. I motioned with my head at a man across the aisle and two seats behind me.

Nola wasn’t smiling anymore. You could at least pretend you don’t know he’s an air marshal, Senator. She looked across to Susie, who was still staring at the TV with her headphones on. You’re meant to be a role model.

She had me. I didn’t need to be an asshole like that. It was getting to be a default setting lately. This anger wasn’t like me—or didn’t use to be. I went to apologize, but the woman in front spoke first. I’d be damned if she didn’t sniff and give me the side eye as she asked Nola for some mineral water.

Sure, Nola said, putting on a practiced smile as she pointed at the seat belt sign. You’ll need to remain seated though, ma’am.

That’s when I caught Nola staring at the bottle of pills with the distinctive pink OxyContin label. I could just see them in the woman’s hands through a gap between the seats. Nola reached out to grab them, and the woman slapped her hand away. It was quick, but it happened. Stranger still, the woman glared back at Nola but didn’t take it any further, and she was the type who’d have no problem making a scene.

Something is wrong with Ms. Nola, alright. She doesn’t look like a druggie—too much weight around the hips.

She and the woman in front eyed each other like two dogs readying for a fight.

I better make sure everyone’s belted in, said Nola. I’ll be back with your water in a moment, ma’am.

The woman in front turned to look at me for a moment—or at least at my hand. A year away, and they still remember me. Pam would be pleased.

Nola walked off to do her rounds of business class. Could I have taken the wrong pills? Either that or I was getting paranoid. I could have sworn Nola’s eyes were boring into me from behind—that is, before she went past and through the curtain to the service area.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out my wallet. Susie, the little girl tucked underneath a blanket in the seat next to mine, looked over. I shrugged my shoulders. My temper before—sorry. Did she say anything?

Susie lifted her mask. She asked about you. I said you smelled like drinks.

It was the first time Susie had shown me her face the whole flight. Weird. She had one of those old faces—nine going on ninety.

Good girl, Susie. Here you go. I handed over five hundred yen. I’m just going to rest my eyes for a minute.

Yen? You said you’d give me five dollars, Richie.

Your grandma can get them changed at the airport, I said, closing my eyes. I could tell Susie hadn’t told me everything, but I just leaned back in my chair and let the Ibuprofen start relieving the pressure in my head. I was drifting back to sleep when I felt her nudge me in the ribs.

You hurt your hand. Susie reached into the mini backpack at her side and pulled out a packet of Band-Aids. You’ve got to cover the blood more. They smell it. That’s very bad.

5

Band-Aids

Susie covered my knuckles with more Band-Aids on top of the ones Nola had already put on. Strange, but whatever made her happy. She went back to her screen flicking between channels, but kept checking on me out from the corner of her eye, like she was worried.

I pretended I hadn’t noticed and pulled out a pile of articles printed off from the web and held together with a bulldog clip. I dropped them into my lap and closed my eyes.

She was a clever little girl, but still, what could her father have been thinking? I’d been in the Wedge Airlines Frequent Flyer’s area waiting for my flight when her dad turned up. I stank of booze then and still did. Somehow he’d arranged for Susie to sit next to me on the flight.

The poor guy was almost popping out of his shirt, babbling on about his wife having Mustang, and how Susie had to get out before she was infected too. Her dad wasn’t